


little spoon

by mundanememory



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Daddy Issues, Family Dynamics, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, if youre anti tkachuk this might not be the fic for you, kinda like one sided didnt know they were dating, more info in note, quinn is stupid a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundanememory/pseuds/mundanememory
Summary: Quinn keeps his skates on the ice and his feet on the ground. He doesn't go falling.Thatcher pushes his way into Quinn's orbit: big, kind, uncomplicated. Quinn wants it to be nothing but there's a thrum in his fingertips saying it'ssomething.Quinn's life bends in arcs and circles; things seem to find their way back to the start.
Relationships: Thatcher Demko/Quinn Hughes, background Brock Boeser/Elias Pettersson
Comments: 108
Kudos: 446





	little spoon

**Author's Note:**

> ["he's... cute. it's just, like, you wanna cuddle him. you know, hold him tight."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IR2BFtXfoQc)
> 
> ["probably gonna sit next to quinn, because he's probably not gonna eat too much."](https://twitter.com/Canucks/status/1200112119775203335)
> 
> thatcher "i have a size kink" demko has entered the chat
> 
> this is teeeechnically a sequel to [_climbing the same mountain on different sides_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530251/chapters/51323584) but you shouldnt really need to have read that to read this!
> 
> i really really love them a lot okay!! this fic is for everyone who encouraged me to write for them after _climbing_; i probably never wouldve written it if i didnt realize other people were interested too!! special shoutout to rebecca also; one of our conversations pretty much directly sparked one scene in this so credit to her :D
> 
> btw the timeline is not even close to accurate please dont think about it too much!
> 
> [squicks/cws: some internalized homophobia on quinns part and also references to homophobia in his family (there are no instances of homophobic language/actions in this fic tho). also both of quinns brothers as well as his mother feature in this fic]

**JACK**

There’s nothing going on with Thatcher. There’s no story to tell about it.

Quinn’s barely begun dipping his toes into the possibility of being into dudes, anyway. It’s early in the morning and he’s staring down into the round comfort of his cereal bowl, spoon hiding underneath the two-toned Apple Jacks. He’s not thinking about Thatcher. There’s no reason to think about Thatcher, his crinkly-eyed smile and the soft swing of his voice. Quinn has perfected the art of thinking of nothing at all, even when he _could_ be thinking of something. Some_one_.

There’s a sudden peal of laughter from Elias’ room. Quinn thinks that Brock probably hasn’t left Elias and Quinn’s shared apartment in three days. Elias and Brock stopped mooning at each secretly and have started doing it openly, and Quinn isn’t totally sure which is worse. He hates how much sense it makes, how fucking _perfect_ they are for each other. It’s like a fucking Hallmark movie in their apartment these days.

Quinn’s life could’ve been a Hallmark movie. Enough people have tried to frame it that way, stick the five members of his family in a picture perfect frame to sell as _America’s First Family of Hockey_. It’s all just bullshit, is what it is. No one knows his family better than what a three minute YouTube video and a couple pictures of the three kids as toddlers can say. 

He stews, shoving his spoon hard into the Apple Jacks, crunching a few, hopelessly thinking of his family and one thing he still doesn’t know how to tell two people. If any family should be _America’s First Family of Hockey_, it should be the Tkachuks, anyway.

“Fuck,” Quinn mutters as he thinks of the Tkachuks, suddenly remembering his and Brady's scheduled weekly phone call. He pulls out his phone and taps on FaceTime, clicking on Brady’s icon. They’re scheduled to talk—Quinn looks at the time on his phone—ten minutes ago, but that’s fine, he’s barely late.

“Quinny, Jesus, keeping me waiting on bated breath over here!” comes Brady’s voice booming over the speaker of the phone immediately.

“Sorry, sorry man,” Quinn says, standing to put his bowl by the sink. “I’m eating breakfast.”

“If you had kept me waiting longer, I might’ve given up on you and called Jack.” Brady tsks at him and Quinn rolls his eyes.

He walks over to the couch and drops down onto it. “No you wouldn’t’ve,” he says. “Now shut up and tell me about your week, you asshole.”

Brady grins at him over the iPhone screen and does just that, regaling Quinn with rambled stories about his teammates from the past week, which seem to center on something especially stupid Colin did. Quinn lies back and just listens with a smile.

Brady eventually finishes and pauses for breath. He says, “So what’s up with you, then?”

Quinn’s smile wavers. He should tell Brady about being into guys. Brady’s his best friend, no matter what. There’s just that one thing, one tiny little thing stopping him.

“I, uh… actually, Brady,” he says. He takes a deep breath.

“Dude, are you pregnant or something?” Brady laughs, unbothered by Quinn’s hesitation. That’s how it’s always been with them, though. Brady puts everyone around him at ease.

“No!” Quinn giggles in spite of himself. “It’s actually—”

And he’s really about to say it, but suddenly Elias’ door slams open and the laughter from inside the room spills into the body of the apartment, Elias and Brock’s voices layered on top of each other as they bicker about something idiotic.

On Quinn’s phone, Brady raises his eyebrows. “Is that who I think it is?” he asks. Brady’s not stupid. Quinn never brought up Elias and Brock’s crushes on each other to Brady before, but he knows Quinn lives with Elias and he can probably put two and two together from there. 

Quinn huffs. “Yeah,” he replies. “That’s a thing now.”

“Damn.” Brady nods, impressed. He pops a piece of gum in his mouth and chews contemplatively. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Ugh, those are my teammates.”

Brady shrugs. “I’ll probably still jerk off thinking about them later.” Quinn groans and Brady grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Anyway. You guys have a roadie coming up? How’s everything going with the travel? Pretty brutal in the West, huh?”

Quinn’s thankful for the change of subject, and he rambles a little while about travel and all the weird things the trainers have them do to help keep their bodies going. It’s so different from college, and he knows Brady understands. He’s glad to have Brady, someone who’s done it all too and understands.

Brock putters over and leans over the couch when Quinn hangs up with Brady, saying “Bye” and waving as he blinks out of Quinn’s screen. “Who was that?” Brock asks.

“Brady,” Quinn replies, pocketing his phone.

“Tkachuk?” Brock asks, eyebrows raised. Then, a moment of realization. “Oh, USNTDP. Nice.”

“Americans,” Quinn hears Elias grumble from the kitchen.

“Not our fault you love us,” Brock laughs back at him.

That devolves into them bickering again which devolves into, by the _thump_ sound Quinn can hear from the couch, them making out against a kitchen appliance. Quinn rolls his eyes. He needs to start getting out of the house more.

He’s also supposed to call Jack today, so he does that after practice, lying on his stomach in bed and making sure to be ready on time. Jack calls him first and he picks up, saying “Hey Jack.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Not much, just got back from practice.”

They talk for a few minutes about their latest practices and whatever other random things are going on before Quinn thinks to mention, “Oh yeah, and Brady and I called this morning, he’s got something pretty funny going on with—”

“Hey, Quinner?” Jack says suddenly, interrupting him. “Sorry. I just—before I forget. I wanted to say. You know how you told me that thing? About how you think you’re 50-50 on guys and girls, or whatever? I just, I love you, man. Like, no matter who you wanna fuck.”

“Um. Okay,” Quinn says. _That _came out of nowhere. When he had told Jack about his sexuality crisis, in an unrehearsed terrible jumble of words, Jack had just responded with, _oh, okay_. Looking back that probably wasn’t the way he was ‘supposed’ to react but felt like a relief to Quinn anyway. “Thanks. It means a lot.”

“Can I ask? I was just thinking about it a little. And I wanted to know—is this whole thing, is it about, um, does it have to do with Brady?” Jack asks, and Quinn’s heart sinks into his stomach.

“N-no,” he stammers. But maybe… maybe it does have to do with Brady. Just a little bit. Quinn’s life and his future are laid out like a road in front of him but it bends in a high arc over his head, curling back onto the past. 

“Okay, alright, that’s fine, man.” Jack clears his throat. “It’s just, the two of you were always… I think Luke always thought—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Quinn interrupts. He never knew that his brothers had thought that way about his relationship with Brady. His heart sinks even more when he thinks about his relationship with Brady, about what had happened. “Brady’s just one of my best friends.” That, at least, is not a lie.

* * *

It’s nighttime and Elias has disappeared to Brock’s apartment, leaving Quinn alone in the apartment. He’s fucking around on his laptop, not doing much but scrolling through social media and watching YouTube videos. Eventually bored, a thought strikes him. He stares at his computer screen, unsure about if he wants to do what he’s thinking. The paused YouTube video stares unmovingly back at him. He groans and thinks, _fuck it_; he holds his breath and opens an incognito tab. 

Most porn sites have gay sections, right? He finds one nearly instantaneously; it’s almost easier than he could’ve even hoped. 

The selection is overwhelming; Quinn’s eyes widen as he scrolls down the page, increasingly explicit thumbnails, bare skin and a whole lot of genitalia. He hesitates before clicking one at random, not even sure what he’s looking for.

He watches it, unsure how he feels, for a minute before closing the tab with a shake of his head and a _very_ confused boner. He slams his laptop screen shut and takes things into his own hands, literally, sticking a hand down his pants and thinking of the video. The bottom had been on the small side, on his elbows and knees as the top had pounded into him.

Quinn imagines it, tight heat around him, and fucks his fist until he comes.

He lies on his back in bed and feels weird until he gets up and drags himself to the shower, facing into the spray until his mind goes blank. He doesn’t think about the bottom in the video, waist small in the top’s hands. Quinn is a pro at thinking of nothing at all.

* * *

“Off day tomorrow,” Thatcher says breezily after their next game, slipping into Chris’ stall next to Quinn. “Got any big plans?”

“I dunno, I’ll probably just hang around. Maybe watch a little of _The Office_.” Quinn shrugs.

“Dude, no way!” Thatcher smacks his arm. “I fuckin’ love _The Office_. You know, I’ve got my Netflix account all hooked up to my TV at home. You should come over and watch with me. It’s way better than hunching over your iPad.”

Quinn looks up at him with a half-smile. It does sound kinda fun. He peers across the locker room to look for Elias; he’s laughing with Brock about something. Brock’s probably coming home with Elias again tonight.

He looks back at Thatcher. “Tonight?”

“Yeah, whenever.” Thatcher tosses a small ball of tape at Quinn, who catches it with a smile. They just look at each other a second, neither saying anything, and then Thatcher clears his throat and looks at their feet. “So, I’ll meet you at my place, then?”

“Let’s do it.”

Thatcher’s apartment is cozy and clean, with big windows overlooking the coast. Quinn blinks out at the ocean when he walks in, mesmerized by the sight of the water twinkling in the dark. “Pretty,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Thatcher replies. “Here, I’ll give you the tour.”

Quinn nods and follows Thatcher. His apartment is about the same size as his and Elias’, pretty normal looking kitchen and bathroom, a guest bedroom beside the master.

“If you ever get sexiled,” Thatcher laughs, “you’re free to crash here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Quinn says drily.

They head back to the sitting area after that, sitting beside one another on Thatcher’s couch. It’s soft and comfortable; Quinn sinks deep into it. Thatcher digs for the remote as Quinn gets comfortable; he runs his hand over the soft blanket folded on the edge of the couch and picks it up.

“Blanket?” he asks.

Thatcher hums out a wordless yes so Quinn throws the blanket over the both of them. “What season?” Thatcher asks.

“Whatever you want.” Quinn pulls the blanket further up underneath his chin. “I’ve seen ‘em all.”

“Alright.”

They’re an episode or two in, curled up under the massive blanket but not touching one another, when Thatcher pauses, turns to Quinn, and says, “Can I tell you a secret?”

Quinn’s breath catches and he doesn’t know why. “What’s that?” he says as calmly as possible.

“I’ve got ice cream in my freezer,” Thatcher says surreptitiously. 

“Oh, very naughty, Mr. Demko.” Quinn tsks at Thatcher. “What will the trainers say?”

“Maybe the trainers won’t say _anything_ if you don’t tell them.” Thatcher throws the blanket off himself and stands. “Now, are you gonna break the diet plan with me or do I have to do it alone?”

Quinn giggles. He kneads his feet into the couch for a second and then sighs and stands. “Yeah, let’s do it. It can be a little secret between the two of us.”

He follows Thatcher into the kitchen and leans over the island as he watches Thatcher bend over and fish through the freezer. It’s kind of funny looking, Thatcher with his long limbs scrunched up into a tiny corner of the kitchen. He emerges with a pint of ice cream in his hand and a devilish smile on his face.

“Bowls?” Quinn asks. Thatcher puts the ice cream down and spins around, digging through cabinets and drawers. He turns back around with two small ceramic bowls and two plastic spoons. Quinn raises his eyebrows at him. “What, do you not have real utensils?”

“Uh… no?” Thatcher’s voice is bashful.

Quinn stares at the plastic spoons for a moment before snorting. He grabs one out of Thatcher’s hand. “You’re weird,” he says with a shake of his head.

Thatcher says nothing and gets out the ice cream scoop with a small smile. That, at least, is made of metal. Then it’s two scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough for each of them. Back on the couch, back under the heavy blanket, Thatcher eats his like it’s his last meal and Quinn eats his like he’s on an archaeological dig. Thatcher’s bowl is on the coffee table next to where his feet are kicked up by the time Quinn’s made it to the third chunk of cookie dough.

He eats slow, paying more attention to the show and the breathy giggles of Thatcher beside him, until his ice cream turns to soup under his spoon.

He finishes it, sucking the half-liquid ice cream out of the curve of the spoon, and sits up to put his bowl down. He blinks slowly, feeling the gravity of the couch pull him back, welcome him back into its warm and comfortable embrace. “I should probably head home,” he says.

“Alright,” Thatcher says. He pauses the episode on a particularly funny still of Steve Carrell and they both giggle. Quinn forces himself to his feet and walks to the door, grabbing his coat and zipping it to his chin.

“Thanks for having me over,” he says, hand lingering on the doorknob. “It’s kinda nice to get out of the apartment when Petey and Boes are probably messing around.”

“Anytime,” Thatcher responds. “My Netflix is your Netflix, you know?”

When Quinn climbs into his car, he sits with his hands on the steering wheel for a long time. Not driving, just looking out of the windshield and thinking about Thatcher, hand curled around the two plastic spoons, body bent over the freezer, legs kicked up on the coffee table. 

The drive back to his own apartment is easy, straight lines and only a few turns. He memorizes it as he drives, in case they ever hang out again.

**LUKE**

_yo does luke know_

_about your thing_

The two texts from Jack that Quinn wakes up to would be confusing in any other time or situation, but instead Quinn reads them and knows exactly what Jack is asking.

_no not yet_, he responds. Jack doesn’t reply, and Quinn doesn’t bother to try to figure out what time it is in New Jersey, or wherever Jack is. He should probably talk to Luke, though. He really doesn’t want Luke to find out from Jack. Jack is a lot of things, but tactful is not one of them.

He calls Luke after breakfast and feels nauseous for the entire two minutes it takes him to pick up.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” It’s loud wherever Luke is, and Quinn cringes.

“Hey man! Listen, where the hell are you?” He presses a hand over his ear so he can hear better, but it doesn’t help much. He can hear a clamor of voices in the background, probably twenty rowdy teenage hockey players.

“Just hanging with the boys!”

“Can you, like, excuse yourself to the bathroom or something? I can’t fuckin’ hear myself think.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke says, before there’s a muffled sound of him covering the receiver and then the background noise recedes as Luke leaves the room. “Alright, I’m in the hall, what’s up.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Quinn says, “but I thought you should know. Like, a life update.” He rolls his eyes at his own words. “The thing is, I’m into guys, too. Not, uh, not just girls.” He tries to make it come off sounding as casual as possible, but his voice shakes anyway.

“Shit, dude, hell yeah,” Luke says, and it’s as easy as that. Like it’s nothing. “Are you dating a guy? Is that why you’re telling me?”

“Um, no?” Quinn says. He hesitates, unsure what else to say. The conversation has gone much smoother than he had anticipated.

“Dude, you made the show and you haven’t gotten your dick wet in a month? Weak, man.” Quinn cringes hearing those words come out of his little brother’s mouth. There’s more noise in the background of the call, though, and before Quinn can tell him how badly he wishes he could unhear that, Luke’s saying, “Oh, shit. Gotta go, bro! Good lu—” and he hangs up.

Quinn looks at the black screen of his phone for a moment, distressed, before texting Jack: _just told luke btw_

_he took it way better than u lmao_, he adds that for good measure.

_shit man not my fault lukes a fucking legend_, Jack responds. Quinn laughs at that, tipping his head back and actually laughing right from his belly.

_fr tho i love u man. go get all the dick and pussy that u want _😤

Quinn smiles and replies: _lmao love u too_

Jack sends one more: _when are u gonna tell mom and dad_

Quinn doesn’t reply to that one.

* * *

Elias goes to Brock’s apartment on another night and Quinn figures it’s as good time as any to jerk off. They barely get any free time especially with the season entering its most intense stretch, and he’s still a 20 year old at the end of the day. Sue him.

Quinn lies on his back and rolls his hand over the front of his pants. He shimmies his sweats just down his thighs, enough that he can get a hand around his dick. He jerks himself off lazily, closing his eyes and thinking of his usual material, a couple good lays from Michigan that always get him off fast.

He’s learned his lesson from last time: he probably needs to ease into the gay stuff, stick to what he knows works for now. He remembers the girls he slept with there, their lithe tanned bodies, slim waists and long blonde hair, how warm it felt to be inside them.

His mind wanders from one to another; he always liked them small, small enough that he wouldn’t feel short. It’s sort of emasculating to be a smaller guy. His thoughts stray to Tyler, how emasculating it is to stand next to him and his 6’7” frame. Hell, he’s pretty sure Tyler’s wife is even taller than him.

On the train of thought of tall teammates, his idiot brain makes the move to Thatcher. Quinn pictures him and he squeezes the base of his dick because _hold on_, no _way_ is this happening. He shuts his eyes and doesn’t think about Thatcher, eye crinkles or big hands or anything at all. His mind goes blank.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to face it.

He gets off eventually thinking of his ex riding him, her lips on his neck.

* * *

The team eats breakfast together at the rink in Tampa Bay before pre-game skate, getting ready for the game. After the skate, though, they have all day off and the January weather in Tampa Bay feels like summer. Quinn’s too antsy to sit in his room all day, feeling like he needs to get out and about before his pregame nap.

“Petey, come for a walk with me?” he asks as they’re packing up to go to the bus. “It’s so nice out.”

Before Elias has a chance to let him down gently, Brock’s coming by and grabbing Elias by the wrist and saying, “Uh, sorry Huggy, we’re gonna, you know.”

Brock does _not_ have to finish that thought. Quinn cringes, and Elias laughs and mouths _sorry_ to Quinn as he lets himself get led off to the bus by Brock.

Quinn pouts, his shoes still untied. Something in his brain whispers _Thatch_ and he looks up, spying Thatcher engrossed in his phone in the corner. “Yo, Demmer,” he calls over. Thatcher drops his phone. It slams into the stall and bounces to the floor, and Thatcher looks up sheepishly.

“Yeah, Huggy?” he says, smiling and playing off the phone drop casually, reaching down to grab it like he never dropped it in the first place.

“Come down to the water with me this afternoon for a walk?” Quinn offers.

“Sure,” Thatcher agrees immediately. “I’d like that.”

The weather is beautiful and they wander down the coast in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of people out and about, chattering and eating. There’s a little park right by the water, not too far from the hotel, and it’s full of life, children running around a playground and people scootering around.

They sit and watch people in canoes float by from a quiet ledge surrounded by bushes. They press their arms together and Quinn counts the ripples in the water. Palm trees sway in the breeze far above them.

“Could be worse places to live than here,” Quinn murmurs, looking up at the palms against the backdrop of the uniform blue sky.

He can feel Thatcher’s eyes on him. He and Thatcher both come from places where it’s summer year round, Thatcher from San Diego and Quinn from Orlando. But it’s not like Quinn really _grew up_ in Orlando. He’s always been uprooted, the American growing up in Canada, never feeling quite at home in either country.

“Vancouver’s a pretty good place to call home, too,” Thatcher says.

Quinn’s feet feel warm in their socks and shoes. Vancouver could be home. It’s still a new city, but Quinn wants it to be home.

“I should probably take my nap soon,” he says, unsure how to reply.

“Let’s head back.” Thatcher stands and offers Quinn his hand. Quinn accepts it; their hands don’t linger after they stand. Thatcher drops his hand and they walk with their hands swinging independently by their sides.

The hotel itself is beautiful and they lollygag in the lobby, people-watching and whispering to each other about the weirdest things they see. Quinn should go upstairs and take his nap. He’s about to say it when a group of people in their mid twenties storm through the lobby, headed down the hall in a storm of chatter. They’re holding flutes of champagne, and as they pass Thatcher and Quinn futilely try to get out of their way.

One young woman can’t avoid them and slams directly into Thatcher, both of them stumbling back and apologizing. She looks up and peers at him a second as if recognizing him as the rest of the group continues on down the hall.

She points at him. “Hey! You’re Bianca’s cousin and his boyfriend, right?” 

“Um,” Thatcher replies.

“C’mon!” the girl says, not waiting for Thatcher to keep talking. “We’re all going back in to dance; don’t miss out just ‘cause you’re off sneaking away to make out!”

Quinn looks at Thatcher apprehensively but a grin is spreading across Thatcher’s face. He reaches out and grabs Quinn’s wrist as the girl walks down the hall toward a set of double doors. “Wanna do something crazy?” he asks.

“Wait, Thatch, is that a wedding?” Quinn’s reluctant but Thatcher’s eyes are crinkled at the corners and he’s moving to follow the girl toward the double doors.

“One song. We’ll just crash for one song and then you can take your nap.”

Thatcher bats his eyelashes at him and Quinn says, “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Thatcher laughs with glee and they’re off, following the girl past the open double doors into the hotel ballroom, which is packed with people, sitting at white-tableclothed tables or dancing barefoot in the open space in the middle. It’s _definitely_ a wedding.

It’s easy to blend in instantly to the crush of people, kick off their shoes and start dancing to the music in only their socks. The dance floor is full and the two of them are pressed together as they laugh and sing along to the Top 40 that the DJ is playing. Quinn grabs the front of Thatcher’s shirt for balance and they spin around, feeling the energy of the people in the room.

It’s crazy and it’s stupid and if anyone from management found out they crashed a wedding Quinn’s sure they’d be in trouble, but for the moment he basks in it, the bouncing wood under his socks and the loud music reverberating through the mob of bodies.

They stay for three songs instead of one. When they finally stumble out of the ballroom, picking up their shoes and not putting them back on, it’s with hands on each other’s forearms, giggling on their way to the elevator and all the way up to their floor.

They’re still laughing, hands full of shoes swinging between them, when Bo turns the corner and nearly walks right into them. “Uh.” He looks down at their socked feet. “Hey guys.”

“Hey Cap,” Thatcher says. “Huggy and I crashed a wedding.”

“Um. Alright,” Bo says, looking confused but shrugging and letting them pass as he heads the other way. As he goes, Thatcher and Quinn look at each other before breaking into giggles.

“Okay, I gotta go nap now. For real this time,” Quinn says, pulling himself together.

“Okay. Me too.” Thatcher looks at him another second, but Quinn just waves goodbye and continues down the hall toward his and Elias’ room. 

Elias and Brock are chilling on Elias’ bed when Quinn walks in, and they look up at him when he gets in. “What were _you_ up to?” Elias asks, pointedly eyeing Quinn’s feet.

“Just… messing around with Thatch.” Quinn keeps his eyes trained on his shoes, not looking up at Elias and Brock.

Brock mutters something that Quinn can’t hear. He can feel his ears burn red, but he ducks into the bathroom before any of them can say anything else.

When he lies down for his pregame nap, he can still feel the beat of the music and the rhythm of the dancing people, Thatcher’s body moving with his. He exhales. It’s fine. There’s nothing going on with Thatcher, anyway. He always keeps the puck on his stick and his skates on the ice. He’s reliable like that. He doesn’t go falling.

**ELIAS**

“Huggy,” Thatcher says after practice.

“What’s up,” Quinn replies, not looking up as he laces his shoes.

“Wanna come to the Canyon Lights with me tonight?”

Quinn looks up. “What’s that?”

“It’s just a light show thing. In the suspension bridge park.” Thatcher shrugs. “No big deal, but it might be fun. I figured you probably haven’t been out there. It’s kinda cool.”

Quinn shrugs right back at him. Not a big deal. “Yeah, sure. Tonight?”

“Yeah.” Thatcher smiles. His eyes crinkles at the corners, and Quinn can’t help but smile too. “Cool. Okay, awesome. I’ll text you, alright?”

“Sure thing.” Quinn slings his bag over his shoulder and waves goodbye to Thatcher.

A text slides in about an hour later when Quinn is hanging out with Elias and Brock in the apartment. The TV’s on but Elias is much more focused on brushing his fingers through Brock’s hair.

_can i pick u up at 4ish?_

_sounds good_, Quinn replies.

“What’s up?” Brock asks, nodding at Quinn.

“Oh, not much,” Quinn replies. “I’m going to that suspension bridge park with Thatcher tonight.”

Elias and Brock look at one another.

“Okay,” Elias says, something careful and level in his voice. “Have fun.”

Quinn doesn’t know how to react. “Thanks,” he says, “I guess. I’ll try?”

Elias and Brock go back to silently communicating in the way they do that drives Quinn crazy, and Quinn goes back to watching TV. When Thatcher texts him just after 4 o’clock, _here_, Quinn waves to Elias and Brock, still mooning at each other, and trots out of the apartment, shoving his feet into his sneakers as he goes.

“Bye!” Brock calls.

It’s freezing out but Thatcher’s car is warm and the seats are heated. “Hi,” he says. Non-offensive Top 40 music plays lowly over the radio.

“Hey,” Thatcher replies. He looks at Quinn. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m excited.”

The drive isn’t long and they chat as they go, about how Bo had taken some of the young guys to the park last year and how fun it had been. Thatcher’s funny in a quiet way, a way you don’t quite catch at first. There’s a lot about Thatcher that’s subtle. Quinn likes the gentle sway of his personality.

The sun is setting as they start out onto the suspension bridge. There are a few other groups around, further on ahead away from the two of them. The lights on the handrails glitter and wave in the dark. “Whoa,” Quinn mumbles. The sunset makes everything glow in pinks and reds. Quinn can feel the glow into his bones as they float above the river.

“I thought you’d like it,” Thatcher says over Quinn’s shoulder.

They walk down the bridge half in silence, chatting about random things from college and stuff going on with the team. Quinn stares down at the river far below them. They’re high above the water and the bridge itself is long and narrow, barely wide enough for them to walk side by side.

The bridge sways in the wind and Quinn loses his footing, stumbling sideways into Thatcher, scrabbling for a hold on his arm. He clutches the soft fabric of Thatcher’s long coat in his cold fingers. “Jesus,” he says.

Thatcher laughs softly. “Don’t worry, Huggy, I got you.”

Quinn relaxes his grasp but doesn’t let go of Thatcher’s arm until they make it to the other side of the bridge. He’s a little afraid of heights, but he won’t tell Thatcher that. He already gets enough short jokes.

After the suspension bridge comes a series of bridges up in the trees, narrow pathways that go from one to another. It seems like a maze from where they are, on the outside looking in, the sun dipping beneath the horizon and the sky darkening, only the twinkling lights suggesting anything other than empty wilderness.

“Ready Huggy?” Thatcher says, reaching out from behind Quinn to put his hands on Quinn’s waist. Their torsos aren’t touching but he’s close to Quinn behind him; he can feel the heat from Thatcher’s body. Thatcher’s breath ghosts his ear.

The lights guide their path through the trees. The sky turns an inky black in the night as they traverse across the bridges. Quinn’s not sure where they’re going or where they came from. He knows that it’s a single path but it almost feels like they’re going in circles, like there’s no beginning or end. It’s only him and Thatcher floating through the forest, the tiny lights strung around the bridges dotting the night like the stars above them. They are perfectly alone with the secrets of the night. Thatcher’s hand is on his arm and that feels like a secret, too.

Quinn rubs his hands together when they’re about halfway through, realizing how cold it’s become. Thatcher sandwiches his hands in his own and rubs. “Cold?” he asks with a smile.

“Um. Yeah.” Quinn chuckles. Thatcher squeezes his hands before letting go. Quinn shoves them deep into his pockets, feeling warmer than before.

They listen to the live music and get warm drinks in the visitor center before leaving the park, back into Thatcher’s car for the ride back, more Top 40 that Quinn turns down to better focus on their conversation. Thatcher’s laugh isn’t that loud and Quinn wants to hear it.

As they pull into the parking garage, Thatcher says, “I’ll walk you up.”

“Oh, wait, Thatch, you don’t have to—”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Thatcher parks the car and climbs out. Quinn sits in surprise for a second before following suit, climbing out of the car and digging in his pocket for his keys.

They take the elevator up to the apartment, each of them rubbing their hands together to warm their fingers. “This was really fun, man,” Quinn says.

“Yeah, I had a good time.” Thatcher wrings his beanie in his hands. The elevator dings on Quinn’s floor and they walk out, down the hall to the corner apartment where Quinn and Elias live.

“Well, uh,” Quinn says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking up at Thatcher, “thanks for walking me up, I guess. We should definitely do something like this again sometime!”

Thatcher smiles. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Maybe we could invite a bunch of the guys, too,” Quinn continues. “We could even go back to the bridge. I bet Boes would puke, he’d be so freaked.”

Thatcher pauses, then laughs a little. “Hah, yeah, I bet.” He clears his throat and only when he takes a step back does Quinn realize how close to him Thatcher had been standing before. He was close enough to touch, and now he’s shuffling backward, just a half step. “Alright, bud, I gotta go,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Huggy.”

“Bye, Thatch.” Quinn waves with his hand on the doorknob. He lingers and watches Thatcher walk away, pulling his beanie back over his ears.

When he opens the door, Elias and Brock are kissing on the couch, both of them shirtless.

“Um,” Quinn says.

They break apart and scramble to pull t-shirts back on. “You’re home earlier than I thought,” Elias says with a cough. “Sorry.”

“No, uh, it’s fine.” Quinn stares at their messed up hair and red foreheads. “We just went to the bridge; you’ve been there, right? It’s not, like, an overnight thing.”

Brock and Elias look at each other. “Guess we just thought you’d hang at Thatch’s after,” Elias says with a shrug.

They retreat into Elias’ room and Quinn flops onto the couch on his back. Weird night.

* * *

Brock and Elias are in and out of the apartment, sometimes here and sometimes there. Quinn doesn’t pay too close attention to what they’re doing, because they are so disgustingly cute and perfect for each other that there’s only so much cooing and cuddling he can take before putting his earbuds in and watching a movie. One particular morning, Brock leaves with a kiss to Elias’ hair. Elias makes a pleased noise as he goes, smiling to himself and kneading his feet on the couch like a cat.

Quinn grimaces. There’s one little itch in his ear, something he knows he needs to talk to Elias about. They aren’t alone all that often anymore. He steels himself, inhaling deeply and getting ready. “Petey,” he says, keeping his voice level, “can I ask you something weird?”

“Yeah, go for it.”

“How did you… know?”

“How did I know… what?” Elias replies, cocking his head.

“That you’re, like…” Quinn realizes that he doesn’t know _what_, exactly, Elias is. “Gay?”

“I’ve known for a while,” Elias says without much fanfare. “I had a crush on a boy. And I figured it out from there.”

“Oh.” Quinn is surprised. He never realized it could be so simple. “You’ve never… with a girl…?”

Elias shakes his head. “I was a little… weird. Still am, maybe. But girls didn’t pay much attention to me anyway. And I was busy being hung up on _him_, so.” Elias shrugs.

Quinn feels a pang of unbridled curiosity about Elias’ crush. Elias never mentioned anyone else.

“Nothing ever happened with him, though,” Elias continues, answering one of Quinn’s many questions. “I was too scared to say anything. I always thought he might feel the same way, but then it was too late.” He spreads his fingers as if to say, _poof_. Gone forever. “People disappear from your life when you move far away.”

Quinn frowns. He has too many _what-ifs_ with too many people who are too far away from him. He wonders about what could’ve been, what might’ve happened if he had known more about himself from a younger age. He thinks about teenage crushes and his stomach spins.

“You should talk to Brock,” Elias says. “He’s bi, too.”

Quinn splutters in response. “Wait, no, I’m not—I was just asking out of curiosity—it’s not like that—”

Elias raises his eyebrows at him. He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. “Okay. Sorry for assuming.”

Quinn internally groans and says, “No, you’re right. I am. I think I am.”

“It’s okay, Q.” Elias is quiet for a second. He pats Quinn’s knee awkwardly. “I know it’s, ah, not easy.”

Quinn nods. He feels like he can’t say anything, like his entire throat is clogged.

“You should talk to Brock,” Elias repeats. “He’ll know what to say.”

* * *

Things are exciting in the group chat on an off night in Buffalo.

_watching a movie in my room, everyone’s welcome_, Bo texts.

_what movie_, Brock replies.

_national treasure is on TNT right now_, Bo replies. Quinn snorts at his phone.

An argument breaks out over the merits of _National Treasure_ and whether it’s a good film, and after ten minutes a couple guys have agreed to watch with him. Thatcher says, _sounds cool cap but i brought my switch so if anyone wants to do that instead come thru_

Quinn sits up. He could go for some video games right now. _sounds fun what room_, he texts.

_413_, Thatcher replies.

Quinn shoves his feet in his slides and waves to Elias as he walks out. Elias grins at him weirdly and waves back.

Tyler and Tanner also show up and they play Smash for a while, brawling mindlessly with bits of chatter between rounds. Quinn’s pretty good at Smash; after all, growing up he had to put his brothers in their place somehow. 

When he does get killed, he harrumphs and drops back onto the bed they’re all crowded together onto. He tosses the controller and lies on his back, sunken into the soft bedspread. Thatcher’s sitting back against the headboard and he raises his eyebrows at Quinn. “That was a fluke,” he grumbles.

Thatcher hums. “Yeah, I bet.” His controller is already discarded. Thatcher’s not very good or, at least, he hasn’t seemed that focused. Quinn looks at the ceiling, still flat on his back on the bed, and listens as it takes Tanner five tries to get Thatcher’s attention after the match ends.

Tyler laughs. “Dude, earth to Demmer!”

“Huh? What?” Thatcher says.

“Motter and I are gonna head out and grab some snacks downstairs, alright?” Tanner says.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Thatcher responds distractedly.

“You wanna tag along, Huggy?” Tyler asks.

“Eh,” Quinn says. “Nah.”

“Kay.”

Thatcher gets up to turn everything off after they leave and Quinn doesn’t move, lying in Thatcher’s bed like it’s his own. He doesn’t want to get up, not when the bed is so comfortable and his slides are somewhere on the floor and Thatcher is so easy to be around.

Thatcher spins around and watches Quinn as he climbs back up onto the bed, sitting on his knees next to Quinn’s splayed out legs. He looks a little distracted, still. Quinn wonders if he’s worrying about the team, their place in the standings and everything going on this season. Quinn tries not to think about it too much.

“So, are we gonna watch more of _The Office_ or what, man?” he asks, grinning up at Thatcher.

Thatcher leans over him, bangs hanging down, and smiles back. “We’ll have to watch it on my iPad,” he says.

“Works for me.”

They end up on their stomachs, facing the headboard with Thatcher’s iPad leaned against it, watching together on the tiny screen. They’re pressed together so they both can see, and they playfully kick their feet at each other. Quinn recites the jokes he knows by heart and Thatcher’s laugh is enough to get him laughing, too.

They watch half a season without paying attention to the time, and when Quinn happens to flip over his phone to see a single text from Elias (which reads: _?_) and he finally notices how late it is, he says, “Holy shit. Fuck. We’ve got a game tomorrow.”

Thatcher leans into Quinn’s space to look at his screen. “Whoops,” he says.

Quinn smacks his mouth, pushing himself to sit cross-legged on the bed. “God, I need to sleep.”

“You could sleep,” Thatcher says, “_or_… you could come to the vending machine with me to get a bag of pretzels as a late night snack.” He gestures with his hands like Quinn should weigh his options.

Quinn rolls his eyes. “Fine. But only ‘cause going to sleep another half an hour later isn’t gonna change how fucked I am for the game tomorrow anyway.”

“Cool.”

Quinn follows Thatcher to the ice and vending room. The ice machine whirs constantly in the background as Thatcher feeds a bill into the vending machine. “Do you do a lot of late night snacking?” he asks, amused.

“Sometimes,” Thatcher says. “It’s kinda nice to have a nighttime treat, do _not_ judge me!” The bag of pretzels spins out of the cage and drops down the machine.

“No, no judgement,” Quinn says with a smile. “Back at the program, Brady and I used to eat midnight cookies and Keith would get _pissed_.” He laughs at the memory and Thatcher seems bemused.

“The Tkachuk kid?”

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn says, hesitant now. He forgets sometimes that not everyone knows him in relation to Brady, that in Vancouver he’s just Quinn, no footnote of Brady always hanging off of him. “We lived together. He’s, uh, he’s my best friend.”

Thatcher pulls his bag of pretzels open and crunches down on one with his molars. “That’s kinda funny,” he says. “You guys are sort of, I dunno, an odd couple.”

Quinn’s face burns at the mention of _odd couple_, something they used to get a lot, something that reminds Quinn of things he’s trying to forget. “I guess.”

“Are you still close?” A pretzel hangs out of the corner of Thatcher’s mouth and Quinn feels dizzy.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean… Brady, he uh, he… once we—” he can’t say it. He eventually swallows hard on the lump in his throat. “We’re still close,” he decides on. “We call once a week.”

“Oh, cool.” Thatcher nods, and that’s it. “It’s good to have friends from old teams.”

They stand in the room listening to the ice machine whir until Thatcher finishes his pretzels. He offers Quinn one but he doesn’t take it. After Thatcher tosses the empty bag away, they head back down the hall.

“G’night, Huggy,” Thatcher says.

“Night, Thatch.”

* * *

“Yo, come over?” Thatcher asks. “We’re close to the end of the season.” They’re back in Vancouver and it’s another game done. Thatcher’s sitting cross-legged in his stall, long legs bent inward in the small space, as Quinn finishes packing up his stuff.

“Yeah, totally.”

Quinn follows Thatcher home again. He parks in his usual spot and meets Thatcher in the lobby. The apartment itself is hot, and Quinn makes a noise when he walks in, crinkling up his nose and quickly shedding his parka and hoodie on the arm of the couch.

Thatcher follows suit, saying, “Yeah, sorry, something is up with the heating and it’s been getting way too hot in here. I’m getting a guy in within the week.”

Quinn drops down on the couch, pawing for the remote. “Sucks, man.”

“Yeah.” Thatcher sits beside Quinn. It’s the same as it always is, and maybe it’s just because the apartment is warm, but it feels like he’s really close, radiating heat off his body to Quinn’s.

He feels a little suffocated with it, so close to Thatcher he can feel the rise and fall of his chest. The gentle rhythm lulls him into sinking deeper into the couch, into the warmth of the cushion and Thatcher beside him.

Quinn’s seen the episode a million times and it’s so _warm_ in the apartment that he starts to feel himself get a little sleepy. Just a little. Quinn’s eyes flutter shut. It feels nice, Thatcher pressed up against his arm and the show playing in the background. He’ll close his eyes for a few minutes, and then he’ll drive home. No big deal.

When Quinn opens his eyes next, it’s to sun streaming in through the window.

“Wha—” he says, coughing and rubbing his eyes.

“Hmmgh,” Thatcher says next to Quinn.

Quinn’s eyes widen and he turns to stare at Thatcher. Thatcher, who is curled up against Quinn’s shoulder. Thatcher, whose apartment Quinn accidentally had a sleepover in. Thatcher, who is currently waking up to Quinn staring at him.

Thatcher, who opens his eyes and says, “Huggy?”, then springs backward, sitting up on the couch straight as a rail, and splutters out, “W-w-what happened?”

“I dunno!” Quinn says, reaching up and brushing down his hair. “I think I just fell asleep while we were watching TV.”

Thatcher fumbles with the remote. “I didn’t turn it off or anything, I must’ve fallen asleep too.” He clicks the TV back on to find the Netflix home screen. “It must’ve just… auto-stopped after we fell asleep,” he mumbles.

Quinn looks at his phone screen. “Oh, my God, we have practice,” he says, bolting upright. “Fuck, I gotta get home!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thatcher says, clearly disoriented and fumbling into an upright sitting position.

“I’m sorry about this,” Quinn says, flushed, as he hurries to get his stuff together. “I’ll see you in a bit.” He grabs his hoodie and his coat before shoving his shoes on and scurrying out of the apartment, pulling the hoodie on as he half-runs out to his car.

The hoodie slips awkwardly down his forearms as he pulls out of the parking lot. It’s a short drive back to his and Elias’ place and he fusses with the hoodie the whole way, tugging on the chest of it to try to get it to sit normally on himself.

He dips into the apartment as quietly as he can, hoping Elias isn’t awa—

“Hey, Q,” Elias says. He’s sitting in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Um. Hey, Petey. I accidentally fell asleep on Thatch’s couch last night.” Quinn pauses by the counter. 

Elias is staring at his chest, for some reason. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, buddy. Do what you want.” He smirks.

Quinn makes a general rattled harrumph noise in his throat and he stalks off into the bathroom to hide from Elias. As soon as he closes the door, a few things from the morning start to make a lot more sense. The chest of the Canucks hoodie he’s wearing is emblazoned with the number 35 and not the number 43. He flushes as he stares at how the hoodie hangs baggily on him.

He sinks into the hoodie instinctively, curling his fingers into it and raising a hand to his face to smell it. He’s shaken by the smell of Thatcher, the cool clean scent, wintry and soapy. It’s simple and subtle but Quinn knows it intimately and could place it anywhere. He doesn’t realize how much time he’s spent with Thatcher recently until he’s there with Quinn without being physically there, until the smell alone has Quinn feeling like he’s on his couch under his arm.

He takes off the hoodie and rubs his face in his hands. He inhales deeply, the salt of his hands, sweaty from a long night in Thatcher’s overheated apartment. Quinn’s filthy and he needs to shower, so he strips down and climbs inside, flicking on the fan. He stands under the spray and the hiss makes him think of Thatcher and the soft hum of his laugh. The white tile of the floor makes him think of Thatcher’s ceramic bowls.

He wants desperately to keep pretending it’s nothing but everything points to Thatcher; every little thing pulls Quinn into that orbit, circling closer and closer, gravity pulling him to the surface of Thatcher’s sure being.

There’s a story there somewhere but Quinn doesn’t know how it ends and he doesn’t want to know. He’s heard this story before and it was a tragedy.

**BROCK**

Quinn corners Brock before practice on a rainy Thursday. He thinks about what Elias told him, promises himself that Brock is the right person to talk to. It’s fairly easy to find him, puttering around in the back of the arena, checking on his equipment.

“Boes!” Quinn says, surprising him. 

Brock jumps and turns around. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah, Huggy, shoot.”

“Well, I was talking to Petey the other day, and he was telling me some stuff, and I think, um, I think I’m like you, Boes.” Quinn takes a deep breath. “...bi?” It feels weird. He’s never said that before.

“Oh! Shit, dude, congrats!” Brock… hugs him, which is not what Quinn expected. He stands wooden in Brock’s arms for a second, taken completely off guard, before he relaxes and hugs Brock back. Brock’s arms are big and snug around him, holding him tight like he’s trying to squeeze all the bad out of him. He pulls away and looks at Quinn seriously. “Who else knows, before I embarrass myself?”

“Just, um, just Petey. And my brothers.” 

Sometimes Quinn feels like he has four brothers, two younger and two older, two from the same parents and two who are strange and different from him, both impossibly blonde.

Brock looks at him with care and concern in his eyes, one hand still resting on Quinn’s arm. “Your parents…?” he asks, leaving it open for Quinn to fill in the story.

There’s nothing to tell. Quinn snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head, looking at his feet. 

“Ah. Okay,” Brock says. “That’s okay. I thought… You seem close with them, is all.”

Quinn chews his lip. “It’s complicated,” he says.

Brock chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. Trust me, I empathize with _complicated_.”

Quinn blinks, and then he understands. He feels at ease around Brock. Talking to Brock feels like sinking your feet into the sand.

“Anyway.” Brock throws an arm around Quinn’s shoulder and drags him toward the player’s lounge. “How are you, like, handling everything? Do you want me to set you up with someone?”

Quinn grimaces. “No way. I’ve never even…” he flushes, suddenly embarrassed, especially next to _Brock_, who basically looks like a male model. “I’ve never even _been_ with a guy.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” Brock waves off his embarrassment. They sit down in the abandoned lounge across from one another. Quinn sips on a cup of water. “Have you ever done, like, anything?”

Quinn stares at him. “What do you mean?” He’s not a _virgin_. He’s had his fair share of girlfriends. That was all pretty easy. Sex with girls, at the very least, is straight-forward.

Brock suddenly seems a little nervous, shifting around in his chair uncomfortably. “I mean.” He coughs. “Like. For _example_. Have you ever. You know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, wiggling two of his fingers.

Quinn squints. “What do you mean?”

Brock is bright red. He coughs again. “Um, I mean, have you ever tried, uh, fingering yourself?”

Quinn snorts a little water out of his nose. “Uh? No?” 

“I’m just saying, man, could be something to look into. I can get you some stuff, if you wa—”

“No, absolutely not. I can use Google.” Quinn’s gonna draw the line there.

“Oh, thank God.” Brock looks relieved. “For real, though, if you need anything, advice or, like, a shoulder to lean on, I’m here.”

“Thanks, man.” Quinn sinks into the sand. It’s warm there.

* * *

Quinn does some googling. He makes an Amazon order and deletes his browser history afterward.

Fingering himself is… strange. It’s weird and not great until it _is_.

It takes him a little while, a week or so of jerking off with fingers in his ass until it comes (haha) naturally. He figures out all the best angles and spots; the internet really is the world’s most helpful tool.

So it’s the middle of January and things are pretty cool, actually. Quinn gets voted into the All Star Game which is two hundred thousand dollars in bonus money and a weekend in St. Louis. Less fun than if it was in San Jose again but St. Louis is nice enough. Matthew even texts him about it, saying, _so who’s buying dinner_ and then _congrats all star_.

_youre buying, come on_, he replies.

_well see_

Quinn huffs and drops his phone. Matthew always runs his mouth. He smiles in spite of himself, though; 2020 is pretty cool so far. Maybe he’ll buy his mom some really nice jewelry with the bonus money.

* * *

The bar is packed almost wall to wall and Quinn feels a headache coming on. He’s nursing a single beer and kind of wishing he wasn’t too embarrassed to ask the bartender for a Sex on the Beach. 

Thatcher walks over a half hour into the night, staring Quinn down from above him. “Huggy. Scoot for me, bud,” he says, gesturing with his beer.

“No,” Quinn whines, drawing out the vowel. Their half of the booth is already pretty full, Quinn at the end and Tyler and Troy on his other side.

“C’mon, the three of you are all skinny, make some room,” Thatcher needles.

“Go sit over with the forwards,” Quinn protests, pointing to the booth in front of them.

“Dude,” Thatcher says, rolling his eyes, “Move.” With that, he drops down on the edge of the bench, reaches around Quinn, and physically moves him, shifting him closer to Tyler. 

Quinn lets out a high-pitched squeak and goes dark red at Thatcher man-handling him. Once Thatcher’s all the way in the booth, he wraps his arm tight around Quinn’s shoulders and tugs him in. “There,” Thatcher says. “Enough room, princess?”

Quinn can’t make a sound; his voice is stuck in his throat and he nods. He feels unbearably hot all over, like he needs to crawl out of his skin. Thatcher is draped around him, his hand on Quinn’s arm and Quinn pressed all the way into the crook of his armpit.

It’s overwhelming to Quinn’s senses, the touch of Thatcher against him, fingers brushing Quinn’s bare arm, the smell of him, the sound of his soft laughter. It plays in his mind over and over, Thatcher shifting his body with ease, manhandling him like he weighs nothing. There’s something undeniably sexually charged about it. Quinn stares unblinkingly down at the table and zones out for a half hour until Elias comes over and waves him out of the booth, saying he wants to go home.

So, there’s something going on with Thatcher. Or, at least, there’s something going on with _Quinn_, when it comes to Thatcher.

He’s shaking ever-so-slightly in the backseat of the Uber all the way back to the apartment; Elias doesn’t notice, too busy scrolling through his phone and texting someone. He stumbles his way into the elevator when they get inside, remembering the touch of Thatcher, his hands on his waist. The only thing on his mind as Elias unlocks the apartment is _Thatcher_, his big hand on Quinn’s shoulder and his warm torso pressed against Quinn’s in the booth. They were so close, close enough that all Quinn could smell was _Thatcher_.

He’s half-hard by the time he manages to fumble with his bedroom door and get it shut, closing it mid “G’night, Q,” from Elias. He presses his palm over his mouth and sticks his hand down the front of his jeans, desperate for pressure. He palms at his dick and takes his hand off his face to tug at the button and zipper, forcing his jeans down with shaking hands.

He trips out of them, hand in his boxers as he stumbles down onto his bed. It’s dry and the tug borders right on the edge of pain; he squeezes his eyes shut and pants as he fumbles with his bedside table to find the lube.

All he can think of as he slides a lube-slick hand around the head of his dick is _Thatcher_, moving him easily in the booth in the bar, pushing and pulling him on the bench without much effort. He thrusts up into his tight fist, arching his back up off the bed. 

It’s not enough, not nearly enough. Quinn kicks his boxers off. He imagines Thatcher with him, shoving him to the bed easily, towering over Quinn.

He’s so _empty_. He needs more, needs something more to get him there. He gets lube on the fingers of his free hands and he reaches underneath himself, his legs jerking open as he rubs around the pucker of his hole. He nudges his forefinger inside, his body jerking as he slips it in.

He imagines it’s Thatcher on top of him, Thatcher with a hand tight around his dick and Thatcher’s long finger inside his hole. He gasps and pushes in further, needing more. It’s still not enough; he rocks down on his finger and slowly pushes a second at his rim, nudging it in beside the first.

“Fuck,” he gasps involuntarily, thrusting up into his own hand, fucking into the tight clutch of his fist. He works his second finger all the way in before pulling them halfway out and then in again. He kicks his legs out on the bed, rocking his hips up and back to fuck his dick into his hand and himself back onto his fingers.

He presses his fingers in at an angle, crooked just right to hit something that feels spine-meltingly good, and he chases it, pressing his fingers in again and finding the same spot all over again.

He whines in the back of his throat, jerking himself hard and fast as he fucks his fingers right where it gets him seeing stars. He thinks of Thatcher again, imagines Thatcher’s fingers inside him, imagines Thatcher’s _dick_ inside him, and then he’s coming hard, come splattering on his t-shirt and all over his hand.

He stands in the shower with his arms braced on the wall, breathing heavy at the white tiled floor as the spray pounds his back.

**MATTHEW**

Quinn pulls things into his orbit. People, too. It’s accidental, for the most part. He’s always been collecting, his whole life, taking people into his circles.

He observes Thatcher as he circles him now. He reads and rereads into every interaction. They’re getting closer every day, exploring hotels together and texting about Elias and Brock being disgustingly cute with each other.

_holy shit, petey and boes left_, he texts Thatcher one night after a long afternoon of complaining about them being loud (doing _something_ in Elias’ room). The apartment is abandoned, just Quinn sitting on the couch wishing Thatcher was beside him and not over the phone.

_haha a reprieve_, Thatcher replies.

_finally_

Thatcher replies with 😂 and Quinn frowns, unsure how to keep the conversation going. He likes the calm push of Thatcher’s words, whether it be in person or over text.

Quinn groans at his phone and types, _actually kinda weird for the apartment to be so quiet right now_

_aw is huggy lonely_

Quinn goes red and flops over on the couch, covering his face in his hand for a second to pull himself together. He doesn’t want to admit it, and he never would to Thatcher, but he _is_ a little lonely. At least, the night would be better if Thatcher were in the apartment with him. If he’d curl up on Quinn’s couch or in his bed. If he’d hold Quinn’s face in his hands and kiss him silly. He’d feel a little less lonely, then.

Instead, he texts him this: _no stfu_

And one more: _come over and get high with me_

_sorry huggy:/_

No one will get high with him besides Chris these days. Quinn’s desperately trying to think of anything to keep Thatcher by the phone when Thatcher does it for him. Quinn does, after all, pull people into his orbit.

_wanna go for a drive?_

_yes_, Quinn replies, hopefully not too fast.

_cool. ill come pick u up_

Quinn stares at the screen. A smile spreads slowly across his face. He feels ridiculous, out of control in his own feelings. It’s never been like this before, the thrum in his fingertips and the spinning in his stomach. Quinn’s always been cool about stuff like this. Nothing fazes him.

Now, he stands in the bathroom and watches himself as he pulls Thatcher’s hoodie over his head and feels completely and utterly out of his depth. He looks at himself, pressing his fingertips over the 35 on the chest, feeling his heart race underneath. Before he can question the decision to wear it, his phone dings with the _here_ text from Thatcher.

When Quinn climbs into the car, turning his body to buckle the seatbelt, Thatcher pauses to look at him. The 35 feels hot on Quinn’s chest.

“What?” he asks innocently.

Thatcher doesn’t shy away. He reaches out and curls his hand into the front collar of the hoodie, knuckles brushing Quinn’s throat. He pulls, just enough to draw Quinn an inch closer to him. “Is that my hoodie?” he says, something dark in his eyes.

Quinn’s about to pop a boner in the passenger seat of Thatcher’s car, so he shrugs off his grasp and settles into his own seat. “Yeah, I accidentally took it that one time.” _That one time_, he says, not expanding on it. They still haven’t talked about falling asleep on the couch together. “Remind me, and I’ll give it back to you.”

Thatcher doesn’t say anything to that. He puts the car in drive.

“Do you do a lot of nighttime driving?” Quinn asks, looking up and out of the window to the lights of the apartment building as they drive away.

“Yeah, sometimes. Calms me down.”

“Goalies are weird,” Quinn mutters.

“Oh shush.” 

Thatcher drives them into the city, still well-lit even though it’s late. Quinn looks up at the skyscrapers, just streaks of light in the dark as they speed by. The city is still unfamiliar to him, most of the roads untraveled. Quinn’s always taken the same routes, the familiar roads that follow the straight lines he knows. He doesn’t want the hard curves, the unexpected. 

Thatcher drives him into the dark, north of the city, further than Quinn’s ever gone. The road arcs around the coastline in a massive circle. The lights of the city shrink further away along the horizon.

The radio is playing some EDM remix of some song, harsh and grating to Quinn’s ears. He looks over at Thatcher and neither of them need to say anything; they both crinkle their noses and then laugh at the other’s matching reaction. Thatcher turns the radio off and says, “I’ve got an aux in the console.”

Quinn takes it out hesitantly. “You like anything in particular…?”

“Whatever you want,” Thatcher assures.

He turns on some Arctic Monkeys album and he doesn’t miss Thatcher smile.

The coastline is on Quinn’s side of the road and he watches the rocks buzz by, the city now far in the background, lights dotting the horizon across the harbor. The movement slows, and Quinn looks over at Thatcher to watch him crawl to a stop and pull over.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Here, let’s get out. The view here is nice.”

Quinn would do anything Thatcher asked him to do, probably, so he unbuckles and climbs out of the car without a second thought, trampling over the grass and a few rocks to get closer to the coastline. It’s silent out here, the city sounds muted from all the way across the harbor. The view _is_ nice, just the water moving gently and a few stars peeking out from the light pollution.

Thatcher walks up behind him and puts his hands on Quinn’s shoulders. “It’s kinda big on you,” he says, fingers pressing into Quinn’s skin through the hoodie.

Quinn can feel his blood in his veins; he can feel his heartbeat in his chest and throat and fingertips. He can count Thatcher’s breaths behind him. “I’m not _that_ small,” he protests, because he’s pretty sure he’s incapable of saying anything intelligent with Thatcher’s big hands on his shoulders.

Thatcher’s hands slide down Quinn’s chest and he pulls him closer, so Quinn is flush to him, his back pressed to Thatcher’s chest. “You seemed cold,” he whispers.

“I’m not anymore,” Quinn breathes in response, not sure if it’s loud enough for Thatcher to hear.

They stare across the harbor to the city lights for a quiet moment, Quinn feeling Thatcher’s chest rise and fall against his back. He isn’t sure what the moment means but it feels like there’s some intangible weight to it, like they’re both holding their breath. Waiting for some circle to close.

Back in the car, they finish the drive all the way around the edge of Stanley Park, the road curving around in a massive circle. The ocean stays on Quinn’s side. The circle closes and the road carries them back downtown, back to Quinn’s apartment. Thatcher lets Quinn out at the front door.

“I get why you like driving around now,” Quinn says. “The city’s pretty at night.” He stands outside the car but bends toward the open passenger window to talk to Thatcher. The hoodie hangs loosely on him.

“It is,” Thatcher agrees.

The apartment is still empty when Quinn gets in and he’s alone again. He falls asleep easily, thinking of the twinkling lights and the gentle curve of the road.

* * *

Quinn and Elias are rooming together in St. Louis, because apparently entry level contract rules still apply for All Stars. They get in on Thursday afternoon and lounge around, recovering from the jet lag. Matthew texts Quinn; _where do you wanna go tonight. ill treat._

_anywhere_, Quinn replies. _youre the local_

_ok. ill pick u up_.

“Wanna grab dinner with me and Marky?” Elias asks from his bed, not looking up from his phone.

“Nah, Matthew’s taking me out.” Quinn stretches, mentally preparing himself to get up and move around again. “Maybe we can explore tomorrow?”

Elias agrees to that and Quinn leaves the hotel to find Matthew in the family car outside, both windows open and music blaring out into the street.

“Welcome to my city, motherfucker!” Matthew shouts out of the window.

“Shut the fuck up, Matthew,” Quinn says as he climbs into the passenger seat. “They’re gonna post things about you on Twitter.”

“Not sure if you’ve been looking at Twitter lately, but they already do,” Matthew replies easily, swatting his sunglasses off his forehead and back onto his eyes as he peels into the street, driving too fast.

Matthew takes him someplace nice, out in the suburbs where the family lives. He hugs the hostess when they walk in and has a short conversation with at least three of the waiters before they make it to their table.

Bread materializes on the table as soon as they sit down and Matthew digs in, passing Quinn a roll and saying, “So, what’s new? How’s the rookie life treating you?”

“It’s pretty good,” Quinn says. “Two hundred thousand for spending a weekend in St. Louis is a pretty good deal.”

“Fucking amen to that. For real though, how’s Vancouver? How are the guys? Seems like a great place to be these days.”

Quinn smiles thinking of the guys back in Vancouver and starts talking aimlessly about them. The city is beautiful, the people are kind, the hockey is fun, and his teammates are the best part. He laughs as he tells a few stories, teaching Chris how to use Instagram and dog-sitting for the Horvats.

He makes a mistake, then, and decides to tell Matthew about a particularly hijinx-filled story about one of Jake’s hookups. He laughs as he finishes the story, saying, “He’s always doing something stupid. Most of the other guys aren’t single.”

“Oh, yeah,” Matthew replies. “Heard Boes finally got it on with the Pettersson kid. Good for him.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, they’re fucking annoying. Cute, but annoying.”

“Aw, Quinner’s jealous. I mean, you’re clearly not getting any. Unless…?” Matthew raises his eyebrows. “You hooking up with anyone?” he asks through a mouthful of bread.

Quinn freezes. “Um. About that.”

Matthew cocks his head. “What’s up?”

Quinn takes a deep breath. He might as well just say it. “I’m… uh. I’m bi. I’ve got, um, a crush on a teammate.” Quinn’s cheeks burn. A _crush_. He’s got a crush. The admittance of it swallows him whole; it’s inescapable now, the rush of his feelings.

“Oh. Shit.” Matthew stops chewing and puts down his bread. “Does Brady know?”

Quinn deflates. “No. I don’t really know how to talk to Brady about it.”

Matthew shifts in his seat. “I never really knew how to talk to Brady about it all either. But you know he—”

“Yeah,” Quinn says. He knows. “I feel really bad about it.”

“It really hurt him, but you know Brady.” Matthew chuckles. “Always one to bounce back. I think he still, even after all this time, he still—” Matthew can’t say it. He just sighs and shakes his head. “You should talk to him.”

Quinn pinches his lips and says nothing. He knows he _should_. There are a lot of things Quinn _should_ do that he doesn’t. He wonders if Matthew will want to come over and get high with him after dinner.

“Anyway,” Matthew says, changing the subject, “have you told Ellen and Jim about…” Matthew gestures vaguely at Quinn’s entire person “all of this?”

Quinn grimaces. “No. No way.”

“Dude,” Matthew says, frowning.

Quinn ducks his head. “You… you know why.”

“Quinner—”

“Dude. No way.” Quinn shakes his head hard.

“Big Walt knows,” Matthew says before pausing again. “About, like, Brady’s stuff.”

“Everything?” Quinn cringes.

“No, but, enough.”

“Well, good for Brady, but both of you know that Jim’s not like Keith.” Quinn crosses his arms in front of himself. Matthew doesn’t understand, anyway. He and Brady were raised on love hand-fed out of silver spoons. Quinn lived with Keith; he knows what it was like and he knows what it was _not_ like. He knows _who_ Keith is not like.

“Promise me something,” Matthew says with a frown.

“You’re the worst person to promise anything, but try me.”

“Please tell Brady.”

Quinn sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Matthew grins, and then that’s that. He asks about something going on with the team and the conversation changes without any bumps or awkward pauses. Matthew’s spoon hangs out of the corner of his smirk like a mouthguard, glinting between his white teeth. Sometimes Matthew reminds Quinn so much of Brady it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He thinks it must be everything they get from Keith, his emotional intelligence and ability to make people feel however _he_ wants them to feel.

Keith could make a son out of any man. 

Matthew does, in fact, want to get high with Quinn after dinner, so they do just that, sitting in Quinn’s hotel room with the window open and passing the dab pen back and forth. They end up on the floor eating cereal they bought in the lobby straight out of the box and howling with laughter at a random memory.

Elias returns from dinner with Jacob, opening the door and pausing when he sees them on the floor. “Um.” He stares at Matthew. Matthew stares back.

“Q, I don’t wanna freak you out, but I think there’s a rat loose in the hotel room,” Elias says, deadpan.

Matthew cracks up, spilling Apple Jacks on the carpet. Quinn laughs too. He could be in Cabo right now with some of the other guys, getting drunk on a beach but this is good, too. It’s two hundred grand and a bunch of all stars and Matthew told Quinn that the zoo is pretty cool, too. There are worse ways to spend a weekend.

* * *

“Hey, Huggy, wanna come shopping with me later?” Thatcher asks. A bunch of guys are getting lunch, and Thatcher and Quinn are shoved into the corner, having their own conversation while the rest of the table yells about something Troy is saying.

Quinn nods, eager. “Sure. What for?”

“I’ve got family visiting and I think I should probably have real plates and silverware for them,” Thatcher says with a grimace.

“Don’t wanna feed ‘em with the plastic forks?” Quinn snorts.

Thatcher picks him up in the afternoon and Quinn clambers into the passenger seat. Thatcher hands him the aux wordlessly. It’s a quick drive to the Bed Bath & Beyond, and Thatcher parks before pulling on a baseball cap and hopping out of the car. Quinn follows him, into the store and toward the kitchenware section.

“Who’s coming to visit?” He asks as they circle the utensils. Thatcher rifles through the spoons.

“Oh, you know,” Thatcher says absently, “the usual. Mom, Dad, grandparents.”

“Cool.”

“Nothing crazy like you, though. I wish I had brothers like Jack and Luke. Must be awesome for hockey to be your family’s, like, whole life.”

Quinn stares down at the utensils. “Yeah, guess so.”

“‘Guess so’?” Thatcher laughs. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno. You just never… _commit_ to anything.” Thatcher inspects the label of a box containing a set of plates. It’s a set of three, three perfect concentric circles stacked atop one another in the picture on the box. “Like, being part of America’s royal family of hockey?” Thatcher changes his voice to an affectation somewhat resembling Quinn’s, teasing him for the blase tone of his voice. “I _guess _it’s cool.”

“Hey,” Quinn protests, though there’s no heat in it. “Being a member of the ‘royal family of American hockey’ isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.”

The teasing smile slips off Thatcher’s face. “Oh,” he says, understanding. Quinn looks away from him, back down at the spoons below him. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s not a big deal,” Quinn replies.

It’s almost awkward, barely teetering in that direction, but then Thatcher reaches over, snatches up a couple spoons, and holds them up. One normal full-sized spoon and one smaller teaspoon. “Look!” Thatcher says. “It’s me and you!”

“Ha ha, a short joke, very funny,” he says dryly, even though he can’t help but smile.

“C’mon,” Thatcher says, dropping the spoons and encircling Quinn’s wrist, “Let’s go look at pots and pans.”

Quinn feels his pulse rush under Thatcher’s fingertips. He hates that he loves the way Thatcher makes him feel, the rush of adrenaline and loss of composure he feels at his touch. He’s always prided himself in the way he stays calm in the most chaotic of situations, the control he has over his emotions. Thatcher makes his heart fly into his throat and his legs feel more like jelly than a bag skate.

“Which one, Huggy?” Thatcher says, holding up two pans. Quinn looks at his hands, fingers wrapped around the handles.

“Um,” he says. “I think I’m the wrong person to ask. Is one… non-stick?”

Thatcher grimaces and looks at the labels. “I… dunno.” He looks back helplessly at Quinn, and then they both break into laughter over the absurdity of the situation.

With the help of a very nice associate who is certainly pretending to not know who they are, Thatcher fills his cart with sets of utensils, plates, and a couple of pots and pans for good measure. 

When they’re back in the car, Quinn’s music on and the weight of Thatcher’s gaze not, Quinn feels like he can exhale and say, “I’m jealous of you.”

“Huh?”

“You’re an only child,” Quinn elaborates.

He looks over at Thatcher. He looks uncomfortable, like he’s not sure what the right thing to say is. “I guess I never really had to fight for attention.”

Quinn’s awash with fondness for the worried turn of Thatcher’s mouth. He hums in agreement. “I give so much of myself to them, just so we stay a matching set.”

Thatcher opens his mouth to respond but they go around a turn too fast and the box set of plates he bought flies off the backseat and lands with a thud on the ground, so instead Thatcher says, “Fuck! Ugh, I hope they didn’t break.”

Quinn peers around to look for the box on the ground. “They should be fine,” he mumbles.

He helps Thatcher unpack the haul into his kitchen, unboxing and putting away the new kitchenware. The plates are perfectly fine, clean and uncracked porcelain. Quinn holds one up to Thatcher and he sighs. “Thank God,” he says, accepting the plates with a smile and putting them away up on the shelf beside his ceramic bowls.

Quinn busies himself with organizing the spoons. “Why bother with getting the teaspoons,” he giggles. “You’re just gonna use the big ones.”

“Hey,” Thatcher protests, getting into Quinn’s space and fishing around in the utensils, making sure the larger and smaller spoons are properly organized. “Someday I might host a fancy dinner for all the families and we’ll need big spoons for the meal _and_ teaspoons for dessert.”

Quinn laughs, leaning just slightly into Thatcher’s body. “Wow, Mr. Demko,” he teases. “You’re so adult and domestic, pretending like this is the first day you haven’t been using only plastic utensils.”

Thatcher puffs out his chest and Quinn can only laugh harder. “I’m an adult!” he says proudly.

“Yeah, and can you cook anything without setting the apartment on fire?” Quinn cocks an eyebrow.

“You wanna find out? I’m not doing anything tonight.”

Quinn wants to say _yes_, more than he’s wanted almost anything. He flicks his eyes over to the clock and his heart sinks. “Shit,” he says. “I gotta call Brady.”

“Oh.” Thatcher takes a step back.

“Sorry,” Quinn replies, walking back to the entryway. “Rain check. He wants to talk about plans for when we’re in Ottawa in a couple weeks.”

“Rain check,” Thatcher echoes. “Alright.”

**BRADY**

It is the most hellish hour of the morning when they land coming home from Boston. It’s earlier than any sane human should ever be awake as they stumble out of the plane, grabbing bags with eyes half shut.

Quinn’s halfway to his car when Elias grabs his arm. “Wait, Q,” he says. “Remember? They’re fumigating the apartment.”

“They’re what?” Quinn says as his brain catches up and he processes what Elias is saying. He does _not _remember anything about the apartment getting fumigated, but granted, it is 3 A.M. and Quinn probably couldn’t spell his own name if asked.

“We can’t go home tonight. ‘Cause of the poison, or whatever.” Elias wraps an arm around Brock’s shoulder, tugging him in close to him under his armpit. Brock rests his forehead on Elias’ face, eyes closed. “You can sleep on Brock’s couch if you want.” Brock grunts in affirmation. Quinn vaguely remembers discussing this a month or so ago. He doesn’t really want to sleep on Brock’s couch, though.

But then Thatcher swoops in behind Quinn out of nowhere and says, “I’ve got the guest bedroom, Huggy,” and Quinn turns around to look at him like he’s just offered Quinn the sun. “Come home with me.”

Quinn hopes Thatcher doesn’t notice him flush in the dark. He nods and looks over his shoulder, waving goodnight at Elias.

Luckily he doesn’t fall asleep in the car on the way to Thatcher’s apartment complex, a quick drive in straight lines that he knows like the back of his hand by now, but he’s less successful in the elevator. He slumps against Thatcher’s arm, eyes drooping.

“Couldn’t sleep on the plane,” he slurs. “T’much turbulence.”

“Yeah, me neither Huggy Bear,” Thatcher says, hauling Quinn out of the elevator with an arm snugly around his shoulders. Quinn presses his face into his jacket, into the clean smell of Thatcher there and the warmth of his chest. He likes Thatcher so much. He likes Thatcher _too _much. He likes Thatcher enough that all he thinks about his Thatcher, his smell and his hands and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Thatcher is taking him home and Thatcher is taking him to bed. The walls of the guest bedroom are painted a friendly yellow and for a disorienting, sleep-deprived moment Quinn’s back in a hotel room in Dallas, and he’s 18 again, and the arms around him aren’t Thatcher’s, and he’s about to break his heart.

“Time for bed, Huggy.” But that voice is Thatcher’s voice, the smell is Thatcher’s smell, the room is Thatcher’s guest room, and the story isn’t a tragedy yet.

When Thatcher drops him into the guest bed, Quinn falls easy. He sinks into the mattress and forgets to drop Thatcher’s arm, sleepily pulling him in beside him. Thatcher falls with a yelp.

“Huggy,” he says, though he doesn’t scramble away, “I gotta go to bed, bud.”

He’s on his hands and knees on the bed and Quinn stares at him through hooded eyes. It registers slowly and sleepily that Thatcher is _in bed _with him, that they’re dangerously close, way too close for comfort. The distance is much safer. 

Quinn drops his hand off Thatcher’s arm and covers his face with it, yawning behind it but also trying fruitlessly to cover his flushed forehead. “Sorry, sorry, g’night,” he says, rolling over to play it off, not wanting to watch Thatcher as he climbs off the bed and leaves the room. He pinches his mouth closed to keep himself from calling out to him, from asking him to stay and lie with him.

The mattress bounces back up as Thatcher’s weight is removed from it. Quinn hears the door click shut and it’s the last thing he remembers before falling asleep.

* * *

Ottawa’s a pretty city, despite what everyone says about it. Brady’s a nice guy, despite what everyone says about him.

Quinn leaves the hotel as soon as they get in and put their bags down. He goes to the bathroom, shakes off the jet lag, and never even takes off his shoes, shoving his phone in his pocket and saying, “I’ll be back later, see you,” to Elias as he goes.

Brady’s waiting for him outside the hotel in his car. “Huggy Bear!” he says when Quinn climbs in the car.

“No, absolutely not,” Quinn says. “Do _not_ call me that.”

“It’s a cute nickname,” Brady replies, pulling out onto the road. “Much better than Hughesy.”

“Well, you never called me Hughesy anyway.” Quinn rifles through Brady’s console, digging through receipts and random wrappers out of pure curiosity.

“Hey,” Brady says, watching the road but reaching over to swat at Quinn’s hands. “Leave my shit alone.”

“You’re such a fucking mess,” Quinn replies, crumpling a Tim Horton’s receipt and tossing it at Brady’s head. His hair is short now, cropped close on the sides of his head and a few curls on top. Quinn kind of misses the unruly curls.

Brady’s apartment is nice, though just as messy as his car. “You live alone?” Quinn asks, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to the kitchen to dig through the cabinets.

“Yeah.” Brady pulls out a stool to sit at the island. Quinn finds what he’s looking for and what he knows he’ll find: a half-eaten package of Oreos. He sits beside Brady and they both reach into the package.

“That’s nice.” Quinn’s glad to have a roommate as a rookie, but there are benefits to being alone.

“Yeah, I can have loud sex on the kitchen floor as much as I want, it rocks.”

Quinn chokes on a cookie. “God, Brady, you’re gross.”

Brady grins, clearly amused at Quinn’s dismay. “Hey, don’t be bitter just ‘cause you can’t.” Quinn rolls his eyes. “Actually, uh, on the topic,” Brady says, spinning open an Oreo and licking the creme off, “I’ve sort of got a thing going.”

“Oh yeah?” Quinn raises his eyebrows.

“Mm-hmm. Keeping it on the low, for obvious reasons, but we’ve hooked up a few times now. He’s _French Canadian_.” Brady raises his eyebrows on that, like having a French hookup is somehow more fancy.

“Wow,” Quinn says sarcastically. “Are you finally gonna bother to learn the language they speak here for a guy?”

“Well, I mean, so far I already know _faster_ and _harder_, so I’d say it’s going pretty well.”

Quinn chokes out a laugh but his face falls a fraction as he’s reminded of the little thing he still hasn’t told Brady yet. The secret seems to grow underneath his skin when he considers the enormity of it; he hesitates, unsure where to even begin.

Brady’s easy to talk to because he fills silences and doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself headfirst into anything, even if he faceplants. When Quinn says nothing, Brady says, “Oh, wait, speaking of hookups, you wanna know something idiotic Whitey did?” and then the conversation veers in that direction.

It doesn’t come up again until after dinner that night. They’re walking back to Brady’s apartment, passing by dozens of couples milling about. Brady scuffs his toe on the sidewalk and says, “How’s the single life, then?”

Quinn’s voice gets stuck in his throat. “Uh, um, w-well, actually,” he stammers.

Brady tilts his head. “If you don’t wanna talk about it, it’s fine, I know you just had that bre—”

“No!” Quinn exclaims. If he doesn’t tell Brady now, he never will. And Brady deserves to know. Quinn _wants_ him to know. If there’s anyone who can empathize with his situation, it’s Brady. “It’s actually, well, I mean, lately I’ve been thinking about—with all the stuff going on, and I mean Petey and Brock are dating now, and, um, I think I might be, uh, bi?”

The look on Brady’s face is unreadable for a moment. Then, understanding passes over his features. Brady’s always been smarter than he looks, at least about people. He can figure someone out in a split second.

“What’s his name, Quinny?” Brady’s voice is soft and sad. The road is well-lit but the streetlights cast long shadows; Brady’s features are strong and round and his eyes seem set so deep in his face in this lighting.

“H-huh?” Quinn says.

“I get it. What’s his name? This guy you’re clearly into? Who made you realize you’re bi?”

“Oh, no, Brady, it’s not like that,” Quinn protests nervously. He hadn’t planned on telling Brady about Thatcher, at least not tonight. A crush on a teammate seems a little on-the-nose.

“Quintin Jerome Hughes. Don’t fucking lie to me, alright?”

Quinn sighs. “Thatcher,” he mumbles, ducking his head.

Brady doesn’t say anything at all. Quinn feels a lump rise dangerously in his throat.

“Brady,” he says wetly, “I’m… I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No, wait, Quinny,” Brady says softly. “Don’t be sorry.”

“Fuck, but I _am_,” Quinn says, breathing in raggedly. “I just can’t help but wonder… and after what I did to you… I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“It’s okay, Quinny. I forgave you a long time ago. I know you hate sad stories, but stories can have sad parts in the middle without being tragedies.” Brady pulls Quinn into a hug and holds him for a long time, even though they’re in the middle of the sidewalk. The sounds of the city seem to disappear and Quinn feels the anxiety in his chest settle. Brady pets Quinn’s hair just like he used to, and Quinn exhales into Brady’s chest. Sometimes he wishes they were sixteen again and nothing was scary the way it is these days. “I don’t love you but I love you.”

Quinn laughs, muffled from Brady’s body. “I don’t love you but I love you,” he echoes. Quinn doesn’t love Brady, but he loves Brady. 

Brady doesn’t love Quinn, at least not the way he used to.

“So. Tell me about this guy,” Brady says, pulling away and putting his hands on Quinn’s shoulders, turning right back into the loud, friendly, nosy Brady who is Quinn’s best friend. “A goalie, huh? Never woulda pegged you to be into weird dudes.”

Quinn smiles in spite of himself and tells Brady everything, the whole story, even though he’s not sure where the real beginning is.

* * *

Quinn dreams of memories, some nights. It feels like his life is bending up on itself, like straight lines of time are arcing over and suddenly becoming circles, bringing Quinn back to a starting point. Tonight, in a hotel bed in Ottawa, the draft comes back to visit him. Quinn falls asleep and finds himself back in his eighteen year old body in a suit and in a chair in Dallas, surrounded by family.

People always say you black out when you get drafted but they don’t talk about how you remember every detail in painful clarity of what comes next. Quinn remembers it all like he could close his eyes and slip right back into those memories, feel the muscle memory of signing the draft memorabilia and shaking dozens of hands.

Quinn remembers the ache in his feet as he finally got to sit with his family and rest after running the gauntlet. They got bussed back to the hotel and the bed was the softest thing Quinn had ever felt under his body. He had almost fallen asleep like that, flat on his back still in his draft jersey and hat, but Brady had started to blow up his phone.

He had smiled at his phone, knowing exactly who it was before he even looked at the messages, known exactly what the message was going to be. The two of them had met in Brady’s room, the rest of his family all out and about, and they had sat on the floor and talked for hours about all the little things they were always too afraid to say before, their fears for development camps and their regrets from college and their time in the USNTDP. The walls of the hotel room were yellow and the carpet was navy blue. Quinn remembers the exact way it all was, down to the texture of the carpet beneath him.

Quinn remembers how he stood up to leave and Brady had grabbed his sleeve. Brady had said: “Wait, Quinny, before you leave.”

Quinn remembers the confusion he felt when Brady tugged on that sleeve and put his hands on Quinn’s waist. He remembers exactly the way Brady’s eyes looked squeezed shut when he bent in and kissed Quinn.

Quinn had kept his eyes open.

When Brady pulled away, Quinn had said, “Dude, what the _fuck?_”

They never tell you the perfect clarity with which you’ll remember the look in your best friend’s eyes as you break his heart.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Brady had said, hand still on Quinn’s sleeve.

He had tugged his arm away, smoothing down the pinched wrinkle from Brady’s grasp on his ironed shirt. “I’m not gay, Brady,” he had said.

“Fuck.” Brady had looked down at the floor and shuffled a step backwards. Brady never backed down from _anything_. “I’m so, uh, I’m so fucking sorry, man.”

“I think I should head back,” Quinn had said, not knowing what else to do. Brady looking sad had broken Quinn’s heart, too.

He remembers the sound of a single wet sniff from Brady as he slipped out of the hotel door. 

Quinn has a BU hoodie and a Senators hoodie deep in the back of his closet, both gifts from Brady. Brady has a Michigan hoodie and a Canucks hoodie, too, though Quinn isn’t sure what he does with them. Quinn has a Canucks hoodie with 35 on the chest that he presses his face into when he jerks off, two fingers deep into himself, drunk off the soapy scent of Thatcher still there.

Quinn likes the straight lines, roads set in perfect grids, but life has hard curves and long arcs. Some circles are big enough that you don’t notice the curve until you’re back at the start. Quinn wonders what could’ve been if he had known himself better when he was a kid. He wonders if there would still be a broken heart on his conscience. 

Quinn loves Brady but he doesn’t love Brady.

**THATCHER**

It’s a Wednesday and it’s an off-day and Thatcher invites everyone over for dinner. “My parents just visited,” he explains, “and I bought a ton of kitchenware to impress them so I might as well use it, right?”

Thatcher cooks them chicken and nearly burns his kitchen down until a couple of the wives help him out. Chris’ fiancee smacks the back of his head and says, “You lot really are useless!” and it’s all very cute (and heteronormative). Brock and Elias look at each other, shrug, and Elias says, “We don’t bother trying to cook since Brock exploded his microwave.”

“I didn’t _explode_ it,” Brock grumbles back, linking his arm with Elias’. Elias smiles at him gently and musses his hair. Quinn watches as Elias whispers something to Brock and the smile that spreads over Brock’s face in accompaniment. Quinn watches them, the way Brock looks at Elias like he’s the only person on earth, and for a moment he feels entirely and oppressively alone.

Most of the guys have someone. Quinn glances at Jake; he’s single, but he’s also Jake. There’s a lot to unpack there. He looks longingly at Thatcher in the kitchen, surrounded by the doting group of wives, circling him and offering hands and words of advice.

Jacob makes a curious noise next to Quinn. Quinn jerks in surprise, turning his eyes from Thatcher and looking over at Jacob. “What?” he says, as innocently as possible.

Jacob takes a long sip of wine from his glass. “You look at him the same way he looks at you.”

Quinn’s cheeks burn. He hates goalies. They’re so weird. “Don’t do that,” he says lowly.

“Do what?”

“Give me hope.”

Jacob pours Quinn a glass of wine. “You’re too careful with your own heart.” The wine swirls in a circle and comes to settle in Quinn’s glass. There are no edges to liquid, no beginning and no end. “It’s okay to fall.”

Dinner is good, despite the amount of yelling it takes to get it on the table. Thatcher sits at the head of the table and breathes a sigh of relief as everyone starts to eat. Quinn steals a smile toward him and wiggles his fork between his fingers. Thatcher ducks his head and his shoulders shake with laughter.

Quinn thinks about hosting dinner parties with Thatcher. Parties where they use both spoons. The wine would be sweet and Thatcher would put his hand on Quinn’s thigh under the table. When everyone else is gone, Thatcher would hold Quinn’s face in his hands and kiss him, sweet from the wine. They would clean the kitchen together and Thatcher would tease Quinn for how he doesn’t organize the utensils.

At the end of the night Thatcher and Quinn would go to bed together and the guest room would be empty.

Quinn’s fantasies and dinner both come to an end. He orbits the apartment as everyone trickles out, not sure where he’s going to land. He helps Thatcher clean, stacking dishes beside the sink.

He stands around as Thatcher finishes piling the pans into the sink, sliding his socked feet on the hardwood and looking at Thatcher’s legs. He’s so tall. He’s got a handsome frame, well set in his shoulders holding strong lines through his body. There’s a confidence and an ease in the way he holds himself; Quinn has always admired how Thatcher isn’t complicated.

“What’re you thinking about?” Thatcher asks without looking back at Quinn, putting the last of the glasses into the dishwasher and simply making conversation.

“You,” Quinn says absentmindedly.

“Um—”

“I think about you a lot,” Quinn continues before he can stop himself. He plummets out of orbit. He can’t take the words back now. There’s now way to swallow what’s already come out, pretend he didn’t just say that.

He can hear the hitch in Thatcher’s breath. “What?” he says, turning to Quinn. He takes a couple steps forward, getting into Quinn’s space.

He’s so _tall_. Quinn’s flushed red. He looks at Thatcher’s face, which is curious and unreadable. Thatcher is looking at him like he’s waiting for something. Quinn flicks his gaze down to Thatcher’s mouth.

He feels like the gravity is suddenly too strong, like there’s no escape from the pull of Thatcher’s body to his own. Quinn holds the front of Thatcher’s shirt in his grasp as if to steady himself and looks at his neck, too embarrassed to look at his face. “I think I like you a lot. I think I like you too much.”

Thatcher reaches up to take Quinn’s hands from his shirt. He holds them in his own. Thatcher’s hands are big and warm. Quinn knows that Thatcher is big but it feels different like this, standing so close to him.

“I’ve had the biggest crush on you since, I dunno, _forever_, I think,” Thatcher says. “I’ve been trying to ask you out for so long.”

Quinn gapes. “No you _haven’t_. You never asked me out!”

“Um. Canyon Lights?” Thatcher crosses his arms with a smile. “That was probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever done, and you suggested we invite the boys next time!”

Quinn blinks and processes it. “Uh.” He remembers how touchy Thatcher had been, how he had walked Quinn back up to the apartment. “Oh. Oops.”

Thatcher looks at him with his eyebrows raised for a second before breaking into laughter. Quinn laughs too, grabbing Thatcher’s forearms and saying, “Hey, in my defense, I was still in denial then!”

“Oh yeah?” Thatcher lets Quinn tug his arms down from his chest. They hold each other’s forearms. “And what tipped you over the edge, then?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Quinn rubs his fingers on Thatcher’s arms, pulling him a little closer. “Maybe when I accidentally stole your hoodie. Maybe that night in the bar, when you, uh, when you—”

Thatcher tugs Quinn in flush to his body and Quinn lets out a squeak. “When I pushed you around?” Quinn can only nod. Thatcher grins evilly. “Hm. Did you like it?” Quinn nods again.

Thatcher wraps an arm around Quinn, keeping Quinn close to him. He reaches his other hand to Quinn’s face, brushing his thumb across the mole on his cheek and getting his fingers in his hair. “I think I should kiss you.”

“I think you need to kiss me,” Quinn agrees.

Nothing happens for a second, and Quinn feels plummeting anticipation in his chest, heartbeat thrumming in his fingertips. He closes his eyes and then they’re kissing. Thatcher is sure and solid against him. He tastes sweet and cool. The wintry soapy smell of his skin overpowers Quinn’s senses.

The angle is awkward, Quinn tilted up and Thatcher’s neck crooked downward, but Quinn never wants to stop kissing him. His beard is scratchy and his hands are holding him solidly. Quinn spins like his orbit has been interrupted, like they’ve been circling each other for so long that the gravity of them finally together is too much.

Only when Thatcher breaks the kiss does Quinn realize he can’t breathe. He gasps for air and looks at Thatcher’s kissed red mouth. “This is great,” Thatcher says, “but the angle—can we…?”

He walks forward, backing Quinn up until he bumps into the back of the couch. Thatcher grabs Quinn by the waist and hauls him up, sitting him on the couch back so they’re face to face. Quinn squeaks in the back of his throat.

“Fine?” Thatcher asks, watching Quinn’s eyes.

“Yeah, yes, kiss me again,” Quinn says.

Thatcher kisses Quinn hard and breathless, licking into his mouth and pressing closer to him. Quinn opens his legs on instinct, wrapping his arms around Thatcher’s neck and rubbing his fingers in circles, sneaking them under the collar of Thatcher’s shirt to touch his spine.

Thatcher makes a wounded noise into Quinn’s mouth and his body jerks against Quinn’s. Quinn almost falls back onto the couch with Thatcher pressing their hips together, but Thatcher’s hands are still holding him tight. Quinn can’t help but to wrap his legs around Thatcher’s waist, getting him closer still, both of them half-hard against their zippers.

“I want you,” Quinn mumbles against Thatcher’s mouth. “I want you to fuck me.” It’s hardly poetic but from this close he can see Thatcher’s pupils blow wide.

“Yeah.” 

They stumble backward into Thatcher’s bedroom, kissing and clutching at each other. Thatcher sits back on the bed and pulls Quinn with him, tugging him onto his lap. Quinn straddles him as they kiss sloppily and grind against each other.

They break the kiss to strip their shirts off, and then Thatcher is encircling Quinn with his arms and flipping him over onto his back. There’s a hand pressing over the crotch of Quinn’s jeans and another popping the button out of its hole, and then his pants are off, shed to the floor. He strains against his boxers and Thatcher makes quick work of those too, disappearing for a second before returning with a bottle of lube.

Quinn lies naked on the bed with Thatcher standing and stripping his pants off above him. It’s quite literally every sexual fantasy of the past month come to life. “I’m gonna suck you off and open you up, alright?” Thatcher says, hair falling in his face.

“Please.”

Thatcher laps at the head of Quinn’s dick before taking it into his mouth. Quinn groans and tilts his hips up, pushing his heels against the bed to get his legs open. Thatcher sucks his dick as he presses a lubed finger at Quinn’s hole, waiting until Quinn says, “Please, do it,” before slipping it in to the first knuckle.

Quinn loses himself in the feeling, Thatcher’s mouth around his dick and his fingers in his hole, thrusting up and opening him. Thatcher gets three fingers deep into Quinn and his mouth is sloppy around Quinn’s dick. Everything is wet and slick and Quinn rocks on the bed, making pathetic whimpering noises in his throat.

“I’m ready Thatch, come on,” he says.

Thatcher crawls up Quinn’s body and wraps his arms around his waist. “Can we—?” He hauls Quinn up and spins them so he’s sitting on the bed and Quinn is straddling his thighs, hands on Thatcher’s shoulders to keep him balanced above Thatcher’s dick.

“I want you in my arms,” Thatcher murmurs. “Wanna see you up close.”

Quinn whimpers. “Yeah, let’s do it, c’mon Thatch, fuck me.” Dirty talk was never Quinn’s specialty and now with his brain fried on the taste of Thatcher on his mouth and the feeling of Thatcher inside him, it’s all he can do to encourage him, reach down to stroke him as he fumbles with a condom and the lube.

Thatcher slicks up his dick and lines himself up, the head pressing into the crease of Quinn’s ass. Quinn breathes hard, bracing himself up with his arms wrapped around Thatcher’s neck, and sinks down excruciatingly slow. The head slips past the rim and he gasps, tilting his head forward to press his forehead against Thatcher’s.

“You good?” Thatcher asks, holding very still.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” Quinn reassures. “Just wanna go slow.”

“Yeah, whatever you want,” Thatcher says, tightening his hold around Quinn’s waist.

Quinn sinks down into Thatcher’s lap a millimeter at a time, Thatcher’s dick dragging inside him. It’s so different from using his fingers, so much bigger and hotter, throbbing inside him.

Thatcher’s dick drags past Quinn’s prostate as he gets seated all the way in his lap and he gasps out a moan. “Oh my God, oh my God Thatcher,” he says, wiggling in Thatcher’s lap.

“You okay?” Thatcher asks, leaning back for a second to look Quinn in the eye.

Quinn kisses him quiet, licking the crease of his mouth. “I am _so_ good, Thatch,” he says. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He inhales and starts to move, grinding slowly but surely on Thatcher’s dick. He holds Thatcher’s shoulders for balance as he moves, both of them slick with sweat. Thatcher is so big inside him, so much more than his own fingers. He feels so full, drunk and jittery from the feeling of the head rubbing past his prostate on every pass and the burn in his legs.

“Ah, ah, I’m not gonna last,” he says on the downstroke.

Thatcher laughs breathily. “That makes two of us.”

Quinn pauses and Thatcher hugs him low around the waist. “How about I—” he says, before thrusting up into Quinn while holding him still with his arms around his waist. Quinn gasps from the sensation, managing a shaky “Yes” as Thatcher sets his own rhythm.

Quinn wraps his arms around Thatcher’s neck, pressing their chests together. Thatcher’s arms are tight around his waist as he thrusts into Quinn and he’s punching out moans with each thrust. Thatcher moves one hand to Quinn’s dick, stroking him in time to his thrusts, grasp firm but gentle, pushing Quinn ever closer to the edge.

Quinn ducks his head to Thatcher’s neck. He kisses the side, and then drags his teeth gently along the delicate skin there. “Thatch,” he murmurs. “Say my name.”

“H-Huggy,” Thatcher groans, pressing into him.

“No,” Quinn says, nipping his throat. “Say my _name_, Thatch.”

“Quinn,” Thatcher gasps. “Quinn, Quinn.”

Quinn shakes and comes, collapsing against Thatcher’s body as he spurts come between their stomachs. He sinks all the way down on Thatcher’s dick, burying his face in Thatcher’s neck and kissing him gently there, and Thatcher is quick to follow him over the edge. Quinn feels him twitch inside him as his come pulses into the condom.

“Oh my God,” Quinn says. Thatcher grunts in agreement.

Thatcher slips out, panting, and gently tips Quinn back onto the bed so he can stand and discard the condom. Quinn rolls onto his side, feeling boneless and warm all down his spine. The bed sinks behind him as Thatcher climbs back onto the bed, crawling over to lie behind Quinn.

“Hi,” Thatcher says, petting a hand down Quinn’s arm, breath warm on the back of Quinn’s neck.

“Hey.”

“Can I—?” Thatcher reaches an arm heavily around Quinn’s side.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Quinn readjusts to scoot closer into Thatcher’s body, Thatcher holding him tight by the waist and nuzzling his nose into Quinn’s hair.

It’s a little weird, their naked bodies pressed against each other in the quiet of the room, but it’s nice. Quinn looks down at Thatcher’s arm around him, and he carefully takes Thatcher’s hand in his own, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles.

He exhales, back against Thatcher’s chest. His eyes flutter shut; he’s never been the little spoon before, but he could get used to an arm around him and warm breath on the back of his neck.

**ELLEN**

“So are we gonna go on a real date?” Quinn asks Thatcher. They’re hanging out at Thatcher’s place, sitting on the floor of his bedroom.

“I feel like we’ve been on a few.” Thatcher smirks.

Quinn hangs his head. “Don’t be mean to me just ‘cause I was stupid.”

Thatcher laughs and pulls him into a headlock, tugging him into his body and ruffling his hair. He tips over on his back and pulls Quinn down with him, so Quinn’s half on top of him, one hand on his chest.

“For real, though,” Quinn insists. “We should, I dunno, do some sort of activity.”

“Ooh, ‘some sort of activity’. Are you propositioning me, Mr. Hughes?” Thatcher’s eyes crinkle.

Quinn tilts his head to kiss Thatcher once. “Oh, for sure.”

“Well, I might have something in mind.”

The thing Thatcher has in mind is dinner, specifically at a French place downtown in a back room that seems suspiciously as if Thatcher had it privately reserved. Quinn feels underdressed as he slides into his chair, raising his eyebrows to Thatcher across the table.

He appreciates, at least, the privacy. It’s quiet outside of their conversation and the waiter only interrupts them to take their order. The room is beautiful, dimly lit with dark red wallpaper and high ceilings. A chandelier hangs over the table.

They try all the typical first date questions, at least the ones that they don’t already know about each other. Thatcher’s favorite color is green. His favorite TV show is _The Office_, though Quinn could’ve already guessed that one.

Thatcher’s an only child, and Quinn knew that one too. “I can’t imagine that,” he admits. “It would be so _quiet_.”

“Yeah, maybe sometimes,” Thatcher says with a laugh. “But it was good. I’m tight with my parents. We talk all the time. My mom actually said she’s glad I’m getting out because I’ve been single for so long.”

Quinn snorts wine out of his nose. “Your _what_?” he asks.

“My… mom?”

“Your mom… knows? About—” Quinn gestures between the two of them “—this?”

Thatcher frowns, just slightly. Quinn’s heart drops. “Yeah? We’re pretty close, I guess. She knew I was into you.” Thatcher’s brows are pulled in. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t’ve told her—I didn’t know it would bother—”

“No, no no Thatch, you’re fine!” Quinn reaches across the table to squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I’m just surprised that your parents know is all.”

“Are you not out to your parents?”

Quinn shakes his head. “Just, um, my brothers, Petey and Boes, the Tkachuk brothers, and you. That’s it.”

Thatcher leans back in his seat. “That’s some weird company.” He spins his soup spoon between his forefinger and thumb. “Back in Buffalo, you said something that made me think… did you date the Tkachuk kid? The younger one?”

“No, we didn’t. He kissed me at the draft, but.” Quinn shakes his head. The Quinn in that memory is a different Quinn. He’s not the same anymore.

“Being a teenager sucks, huh.” Thatcher leans back in his chair. “I had no fucking clue who I was.”

“It was _terrible_,” Quinn agrees, commiserating. “I feel like I’ve, I dunno, grown up a lot since being here.”

Thatcher raises his glass as if cheersing Quinn. “Welcome to adulthood. I’d say _the real world_, but I’m not sure if playing in the NHL counts.”

“Still sorta feels like a dream.”

“I don’t think it’ll ever feel real.”

Nothing about any of this feels _real_. Thatcher sits across the table from him with his eyes crinkled in the corners and his bangs hanging over his forehead. Quinn wants to reach out and brush his fingers through them.

Thatcher holds his hand under the table and after dinner he holds his hand in the car, their fingers laced as Thatcher drives them to Quinn’s apartment. He walks Quinn upstairs, their voices echoing in the stairwell and their hands still linked as they walk the spiral up and up. They don’t take the elevator because it goes too fast.

They linger by the door. Quinn isn’t sure if Elias is home but he doesn’t want to push his luck. Elias isn’t the first person he wants to know about him and Thatcher.

“I wanna tell my mom. Sometime soon. Not, like, _tonight_, but soon.” Quinn tells Thatcher, holding his hands in his own.

“Okay. Don’t feel like you have to. Whenever you’re ready.”

Quinn rocks up on his toes and kisses him there in the middle of the hallway. “Goodnight,” he says, their faces still close together.

Thatcher kisses him again, wrapping his arms around him and tugging him closer. Quinn squeaks in his throat and clutches at Thatcher’s shirt. When Thatcher breaks the kiss, he looks at Quinn’s mouth and says, “You sure you don’t wanna come over tonight?”

Quinn feels a rush of heat down his spine. “I can’t,” he says, though he lets his hands linger on Thatcher’s stomach. “We have practice tomorrow early.” He still doesn’t step away.

He kisses Thatcher again. Once more for good measure, right? Three times for good luck. Only twice just wouldn’t feel right.

“Okay, okay,” he says, breaking the kiss and feeling his cheeks heat. “I really have to go now. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Thatcher echoes. Quinn opens the door and backs inside, watching Thatcher and waving goodbye. Thatcher doesn’t move as the door swings shut, still standing there looking at Quinn, holding his beanie loosely by his side.

* * *

_im gonna do it now i think_, Quinn texts Thatcher on an evening in late February.

_good luck, i believe in u_, Thatcher replies. Quinn takes a deep breath. He thumbs through his contacts until he finds the one he’s looking for.

The phone only rings for a moment before she picks up. “Quinn? What’s up?”

“Hi, mom,” he says. “I wanted to ask you something really quick.”

“Yeah, no problem. What’s going on?” She doesn’t sound _concerned_, exactly, but maybe a little confused.

“First, uh, is dad around?”

“No, he’s at work. Do you want to wait?”

“No, no!” Quinn says, probably too fast. “It’s fine. Let’s just talk now.”

“Okay.” Now she sounds concerned. Quinn grimaces at himself, lying flat on his back with one hand on his face.

“I dunno. I just wanted to talk about some stuff from the season so far, I guess.” Quinn circles the elephant he’s pretending isn’t in the room. He isn’t sure how to get there, how to show it to his mother.

“Alright. Anything in particular? We are so proud of everything you’ve done so far, Quinn.”

“Thanks mom. It has to do with, um, with off-ice stuff.” He circles a little closer. The arc narrows.

“Oh? Is the team treating you alright? You’re not getting hazed or anything, right?” Mom-mode turns on suddenly, concern evident in her voice.

“No, no way, the guys are great. It’s more, uh,” Quinn stirs his words in his head, “so you know how I had that break-up last month?” He swallows, and a lump rises in his throat.

“I’m sorry about that, honey. Have you been doing okay? I told Jack to call you about it, and I know he’s not always the best at following through, but he really does care—”

“No, I’m okay. Jack and I have been talking. It’s just, um, well,” Quinn’s voice shakes.

“What’s wrong, baby? You can tell me anything.” Her voice is sad and worried, and the lump rises higher in Quinn’s throat.

“I’m, um, I’m with someone, mama,” Quinn says. “A-another guy.”

“Oh.” She’s quiet for a pause. “I’m really happy for you, Quinn. It’s okay. Don’t worry, honey. We’ll love _whoever_ you bring home. _Whoever_ you want to marry.”

“Mom—” Tears spring to Quinn’s eyes.

“I know you’ve always wanted to be the strong big brother, and pretend that nothing is hard, and that nothing hurts,” she says, “but you’re still _my _baby. My first baby. And I will love you no matter what.”

Quinn’s breath is ragged, catching in his throat. His chin wobbles, and he tries to blink it away but a few tears escape and run down his temples into his hair. “Please don’t tell dad,” he whispers, voice caught in his throat.

“Oh, Quinn.” Her voice breaks and more tears collect in Quinn’s eyes. “Do your brothers know?”

“Mm-hmm,” Quinn hums. “And Brady and Matthew. And a couple teammates.” He exhales a shaky breath, blinking back the tears that haven’t fallen yet.

“I’m proud of you, Quinn. Those boys are _all _your brothers.”

Quinn smiles at the ceiling even though his bottom lip wobbles. He thinks about his circle, his six brothers. Two by blood, two by time, and two by Vancouver blue. He loves them all. They give so much of themselves to him.

The long arc of Quinn’s life is a circle, curving far above his head back to his childhood. He’s been running his whole life trying to follow the straight lines only to find himself back where he started, with the same people who were always there for him.

Quinn says goodbye to his mother and wipes his eyes. He sits in the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of Apple Jacks, smiling down into the round comfort of the porcelain. He can hear laughter in Elias’ bedroom. It’s almost the end of the day and soon the circle closes; tomorrow he can begin again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> im gonna pioneer this ship or die trying!!!
> 
> much love <3


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